Post your sob stories. A challenge, but serious

[william]

My father never talks about his childhood, never talks about himself. All I know of him comes from my mother.

He’s in poor health and soon will be gone. In a few years I will be the only person left who remembers him. And then, when I’m gone, no one.

He had a rough childhood - unwanted. The product of a marriage or an affair gone awry. Or maybe his father passed away. I don’t know. I never speak to him about these things. And yet we talk. At least once a week.

“How are you.”
“Good. You?”
“Good. It’s raining, huh?”
“Yea. Hopefully it’ll stop soon.”
“I hope so. So everything good with you?”
“Yea. And you?”
“Everything’s good here too. You OK?”
“Yea.”
“OK. Bye.”
“Bye”

Verbatim.

Sometimes when he needs something, he calls. Ten dollars. A bill to be paid. Little things. It shames him to have to ask me for help. There was a time in our lives when I once reached out to him and was tuned down. I’ve never mentioned it, and he probably doesn’t recall. At least not consciously, at least not directly.

Lately he calls less and less.

Though he can no longer afford to live in the neighborhood, he visits - traveling an hour each way - to buy groceries on credit and to see his friends, his acquaintances, to experience the human contact he’s longed for all his life.

I could see him ever day.

In an old trunk I find a bunch of family letters. One of them from his brother telling him that their mother had died.

I meet with my dad and show it to him. I thought he would want to keep it.

“Put it away,” he says.
“But don’t you want…”
“Put it away. I don’t want to see it.”

His eyes well up. “In my heart she’s still alive.”

I have a painting of my grandmother, done from a photo. My father commissioned an artist to paint it. We were poor. So, so poor and I can’t imagine the love my father must have had for the memory of his mother that he would spend so much on something so ostentatious.

In the portrait, my grandmother’s looking down and smiling. My mother once told me she’s looking at a baby in her arms. Me.

My grandmother married another man and had more kids. They all lived well - that is the new kids did. They owned a grocery store and my father, the unwanted child, had to beg for food, had to wear his sister’s dresses when his own clothes no longer fit. He lived in the streets and slept in the back yard.

My father spent his life looking for the family he never had. His friends were his family and the echoes of those experiences never left him; they formulated the man he was to become. Home was a place to sleep. Friends were the people you spent time with.

He was a kind father. Kind to us. Kind to all children.

Christmas was always a special event. He never had one and wanted to make sure his children always did. We could do no wrong and were never denied what we asked for, what we wanted, what we sometimes could not afford. But birthdays and other special events were always forgotten. Family, you see, wasn’t something he knew. In all my years he only took me to the movies once. I’ll never forget it. In all my years he only took me shopping once. I’ll never forget it.

At first I thought he was a man of the world but then I found out otherwise. He was the fool, the idiot who always lent a hand and was always taken advantage of, always doing favors, working sometimes for free, for employers who knew better, who called him a friend.

I ride the subway and across the car I see him. You would think I would go up and say, “Hello.” Surprise him with a chance encounter with his son. I don’t. I hold back. And then I realize it’s not him, just a doppelganger with dyed black hair, a dirty blue windbreaker jacket, and a sorrowful face full of exhaustion and fear.

This image, this reflection of my father, stirs up traces of sadness that I would much rather not have.

This painting of my grandmother, the one in which she’s smiling. She seems so happy. I find out years later she’s holding the child of one of my father’s half-brother’s. Not me.

My father is one of those old men you see on the streets who you wonder if they have families, who you wonder if anyone loves them.

[calipunkrockgirl]

wow, powerful stories. Thanks quad for starting this thread. It really helps put things into perspective.

I'd like to share a couple of mine as well.

Molested at around 5 years old by a neighbor boy age 12 who lived 2 houses away. Told my parents when I was probably 10 or 11 but had no proof, just my word so no charges were ever filed. I had to walk by his house every day to and from high school.

Lost my virginity way too early (14) to a 17 year old. a year and a half later he died in a car accident.

Date raped at 17 by a 22 year old. the day after, he took off to Georgia and who knows what happened to him after that. I tried to press charges but the state didn't find it serious enough to locate and extricate him.

As you can imagine, those calls from Coconut and his girl really REALLY upsets me... to the point I thought about not listening to the show anymore. Having been a victim, even unknowingly (losing my virginity SOOO young still bothers me) really makes it hard to listen to a 16 year old who thinks she learned all about sex in health class.

To end on a positive note, I'm now very happily married, have a good job and a good life and love listening to the show and reading the forums. Thanks for letting me share.

[perclissigi]

great thread, really putting things in perspective....
makes me even more sad about my current situation,

It's totally my fault but i was sending some texts to this girl while i was drunk a few weeks ago, trying to get her to come over etc... anyway my girlfriend found out and now she's convinced that the whole thing is over, and I wish I could get her to see that we can get through this and there are bigger things in life. I've learned from my mistake here, i figured out why it happened and it won't happen again, i just miss her so much, we'd been together for 5 years, we were best friends, and i can't believe i might have thrown all of that away...boo.

Anyway, that's not quite my sob story, just an interesting factoid.
There are many sad parts to my life, too many to go into, but this is the main one.

When I was 12 my sister was diagnosed with a brain tumor, she was 9 at the time... fast forward 2 years later, after a load of different treatments and one hopeful regression, nothing has worked, her body gradually starts shutting down, we spend that christmas with her only being able to move one eye, and less than a month later, she dies.

After that my family slowly falls apart, all the skeletons come out of the closet, my dad's drinking problem, him cheating on my mum, things i thought happened to other kids at school are all happening to me.

Long story short - I turned into a miserable motherfucker for a while, but things are kind of ok now, i'm starting an exciting career in the music biz, and while things are shitty with my girlfiend (i'm still referring to her as that) i'm confident that things will work out, my mum has re-married to a great guy and things are improving. I just count myself lucky, that although my story is sad, i'm still lucky to have all the things I do, and i know i'm a lot better off that many.
phew, rant over.

[DanClass]

Originally Posted by william

My father never talks about his childhood, never talks about himself. All I know of him comes from my mother.

Hes in poor health and soon will be gone. In a few years I will be the only person left who remembers him. And then, when Im gone, no one.

He had a rough childhood - unwanted. The product of a marriage or an affair gone awry. Or maybe his father passed away. I dont know. I never speak to him about these things. And yet we talk. At least once a week.

How are you.
Good. You?
Good. Its raining, huh?
Yea. Hopefully itll stop soon.
I hope so. So everything good with you?
Yea. And you?
Everythings good here too. You OK?
Yea.
OK. Bye.
Bye

Verbatim.

Sometimes when he needs something, he calls. Ten dollars. A bill to be paid. Little things. It shames him to have to ask me for help. There was a time in our lives when I once reached out to him and was tuned down. Ive never mentioned it, and he probably doesnt recall. At least not consciously, at least not directly.

Lately he calls less and less.

I could see him ever day. Though he can no longer afford to live in the neighborhood, he visits - traveling an hour each way - to buy groceries on credit and to see his friends, his acquaintances, to experience the human contact hes longed for all his life.

In an old trunk I find a bunch of family letters. One of them from his brother telling him that their mother had died.

I meet with my dad and show it to him. I thought he would want to keep it.

Put it away, he says.
But dont you want
Put it away. I dont want to see it.

His eyes well up. In my heart shes still alive.

I have a painting of my grandmother, done from a photo. My father commissioned an artist to paint it. We were poor. So, so poor and I cant imagine the love my father must have had for the memory of his mother that he would spend so much on something so ostentatious.

In the portrait, my grandmothers looking down and smiling. My mother once told me shes looking at a baby in her arms. Me.

My grandmother married another man and had more kids. They all lived well - that is the new kids did. They owned a grocery store and my father, the unwanted child, had to beg for food, had to wear his sisters dresses when his own clothes no longer fit. He lived in the streets and slept in the back yard.

My father spent his life looking for the family he never had. His friends were his family and the echoes of those experiences never left him; they formulated the man he was to become. Home was a place to sleep. Friends were the people you spent time with.

He was a kind father. Kind to us. Kind to all children.

Christmas was always a special event. He never had one and wanted to make sure his children always did. We could do no wrong and were never denied what we asked for, what we wanted, what we sometimes could not afford. But birthdays and other special events were always forgotten. Family, you see, wasnt something he knew. In all my years he only took me to the movies once. Ill never forget it. In all my years he only took me shopping once. Ill never forget it.

At first I thought he was a man of the world but then I found out otherwise. He was the fool, the idiot who always lent a hand and was always taken advantage of, always doing favors, working sometimes for free, for employers who knew better, who called him a friend.

I ride the subway and across the car I see him. You would think I would go up and say, Hello. Surprise him with a chance encounter with his son. I dont. I hold back. And then I realize its not him, just a doppelganger with dyed black hair, a dirty blue windbreaker jacket, and a sorrowful face full of exhaustion and fear.

This image, this reflection of my father, stirs up traces of sadness that I would much rather not have.

This painting of my grandmother, the one in which shes smiling. She seems so happy. I find out years later shes holding the child of one of my fathers half-brothers. Not me.

My father is one of those old men you see on the streets who you wonder if they have families, who you wonder if anyone loves them.

thanks dude

[the big lebowski]

Originally Posted by william

My father never talks about his childhood, never talks about himself. All I know of him comes from my mother.

He’s in poor health and soon will be gone. In a few years I will be the only person left who remembers him. And then, when I’m gone, no one...

i feel like a kid at storytime lying on his stomache w/ his head held up by his hands, hanging on william's every word. MORE!

[Sexy_Potatoe_with_an_E]

In the past maybe 3 years six of my family members have died on both sides, it's such a strange thing because all of the ages are random but alot of the incidents are sudden. My aunt at age 46 sudden; My cousin mid-thirties anuerism sudden;Grandmother 88 ; Great Grandfather 115 at least; Great Grandmother 90s;my uncle mid 40s sudden. Even before these three years two of my aunts one as a child the other mid-twenties. My uncle is in a coma, and my aunt is degenerating because she had her stomach stapled and is losing too much weight at a rapid pace, my grand father is mentally degenerating, my uncle is visibly dying although his pride won't allow him seek medical help...it's sad when the guy driving the herse is sad with you because he knows you're family from being consistent customers at the funeral home. Everytime we get a call from a relative we always respond, who is it this time ?

[the big lebowski]

Originally Posted by Sexy_Potatoe_with_an_E

In the past maybe 3 years six of my family members have died on both sides, it's such a strange thing because all of the ages are random but alot of the incidents are sudden. My aunt at age 46 sudden; My cousin mid-thirties anuerism sudden;Grandmother 88 ; Great Grandfather 115 at least; Great Grandmother 90s;my uncle mid 40s sudden. Even before these three years two of my aunts one as a child the other mid-twenties. My uncle is in a coma, and my aunt is degenerating because she had her stomach stapled and is losing too much weight at a rapid pace, my grand father is mentally degenerating, my uncle is visibly dying although his pride won't allow him seek medical help...it's sad when the guy driving the herse is sad with you because he knows you're family from being consistent customers at the funeral home. Everytime we get a call from a relative we always respond, who is it this time ?

*note to self: never marry into this family. is your last name "black widow?" i'll bet you're somehow related to angela lansbury (sp?). everytime she'd show up, someone got murdered.

[portions_for_foxes]

I guess it's questionable whether or not this is a sad story. In 9th grade I had my first big crush on a boy named Patrick. That year our football team went to state and we rode on the bus to the game together. On the way back he laid down in my lap and I started to touch him. This wouldn't have been so "terrible" if it wasn't for the fact that I too am a boy. He came, and he sat up. He didn't speak to me the rest of the night and we went our seperate ways when we got back to the high school.

Over the weekend I wrote him a letter telling him how I felt because he turned down my phone calls. Monday rolled around and I chickened out and threw the letter away. Someone went behind me, dug the letter out of the trash, and gave it to his then girlfriend. To shorten this story: the administration and my parents found out and I was sent to North Carolina to live with my grandparents. For me the worst part of the whole thing was the fact that even though he let me touch him, to everyone at school I was the fag. I was the pervert. I was the freak.

[XbluesparkX]

I had a friend named Brittany. She died along with her brother and mother. They were murdered by their father in Scottsdale, Arizona. They never found him. He's now in the FBI's 10 most wanted list.

[MichaelG]

Originally Posted by XbluesparkX

I had a friend named Brittany. She died along with her brother and mother. They were murdered by their father in Scottsdale, Arizona. They never found him. He's now in the FBI's 10 most wanted list.

http://www.fbi.gov/wanted/topten/fugitives/fisher.htm